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‘Oh! I didn’t realize you were doing a master’s. Nice. Well – the year after, then.’ He grins at me again, and I drink some more water rather than having to respond and outright lie about my degree.
After a little while, when I’ve finally finished my water and sobered up a bit, Monty asks if I’m feeling better and I’m relieved that I am. He doesn’t mock me for not handling my alcohol like Tasha did, like I expected he would – I know rugby lads have a pretty heavy drinking culture, and Monty’s been no exception to the rule so far this summer.
Instead he just says, ‘We should go get a bite to eat, that’ll help. The others are probably hungry, too.’
‘Good plan. Thanks for looking out for me.’
‘Hey, it’s all good. What are friends for, right? Come on – let’s go get dinner.’ He slaps his thighs before standing up, and it takes me a beat to follow suit, toosurprised that Monty – cool, popular Monty – considers usfriends. It’s a good feeling.
He mistakes my hesitation for being wobbly and drunk still, so offers me a hand up. His skin is cool and coarse, and I can’t help but compare the sensation to when I’ve held Lloyd’s hand.
As if thinking his name summons him into existence, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and I’m suddenly acutely aware of a pair of eyes on me. Glancing in their direction, I see Lloyd and Will standing not too far off, and Lloyd’s green eyes lock onto mine. A myriad of emotions flicker across his face before Will nudges him and says something; I can’t get a handle on what’s going through his mind, exactly, but I know it’s nothing good.
After what happened between us earlier, I can’t blame him. He must really hate me.
I feel Lloyd’s gaze following me all the way over to the others, and even after we leave as a group to get some dinner.
The sound of my phone buzzing violently on the nightstand wakes me up. The blueish glare of the screen is blinding in the complete darkness of my bedroom and I wince, fumbling to yank the charger out of my phone and then squinting at the screen. My stomach gives a nervous flip as I worry that it’s Dad or Gina, that something’s horribly wrong – because obviously, somethinghasto be horribly wrong to call at almost three o’clock on a Saturday morning, and who else would be calling me?
My brain struggles to understand that the name on the screen isn’t Dad, or my stepmum, but Lloyd.
Why is Lloyd calling me?
It rings out, and as the missed call notification appears on the screen I see a string of messages from him. I only get a glance at them long enough tounderstand that he’s apparently been drunk-texting me, before he’s calling again. This time, I answer.
My voice is thick with sleep when I say, ‘Hello?’
It sounds like I don’t know who it is. I probably should’ve just gone with asking,What’s wrong?After what happened at the party earlier I sort of assumed we’d go back to ignoring each other around the office next week, but here he is – ranting down the phone to me in the middle of the night.
‘You don’t get todostuff like that,’ he snaps down the phone, agitated – but there’s a sadness in his words that takes some of the edge off his anger, makes his voice wobble just a little. ‘You know? You can’t kiss me like that –look at melike that, say it doesn’t mean anything, and then go out with Monty. FuckingMonty.’
‘What?’
‘Let me guess – that didn’t mean anything either, right?’ He scoffs, and I still have no idea what he’s talking about. There’s an electronic beep, muffled, coming from his end of the line. ‘Somehow, I’m not buying it. What floor are you on? Six?’
I sit bolt upright, holding the phone tight to my ear, eyes wide as my room comes into focus, a landscape of familiar shadows.
‘Fletcher. Please tell me you’re not in the building right now.’
‘Six sounds right,’ he says, mostly to himself.
I’m on the eighth floor, but Burnley and Freya’s flat is on the sixth. God, what if Lloyd hammers on their door? What if they answer, and he says he’s looking for me? There’s no way either of them would keep that a secret.
‘I’m on eight,’ I correct him, already hurtling out of my bed to meet him outside.
I tiptoe past the others’ bedrooms and then ease the front door open as quickly as I dare, praying they don’t hear the lock click shut after me. I allow myself a small moment of relief when I find I’ve gotten there before Lloyd: I had a horrible feeling I’d come out to find him knocking on random doors looking for me – worst-case scenario, waking up Tasha just down the hall.
The lift doors open a moment later and Lloyd strides out, faltering to a stop when he sees me. He’s obviously been out all night – there’s dirt on one knee of his jeans like he’s fallen over, and his T-shirt is rumpled, his dark hair tousled. He doesn’t seem to notice what kind of state I’m in: hair in French braids and mussed by sleep, barefoot and in a mismatched outfit of pyjama shorts and a too-big Freshers’ Week T-shirt I got on a rare night out.
For a moment, he stands there, and I hear his breath hitch, see the misery on his face, his lips parted and gaze plaintive – pleading.
Then he steels himself before approaching me; his face is cast in shadow from the dim automatic lights in the hallway, and his eyes so dark I can hardly see the green of them.
‘Fletcher,’ I tell him. ‘You can’t just show up here like this.’
‘Tell me,’ he demands, chin jutting out. ‘Tell me it didn’t mean anything when we kissed.’
There’s a steadiness and determination to him that makes me realize he isn’t here in some kind of drunken stupor – however tipsy he might have been to text me earlier. It’s plain old emotion clouding his judgement now.
